


S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story (Vol. 3) - Side A

by grabthefish



Series: S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story [5]
Category: Psych
Genre: Alternate Reality Pondering, By Which I Mean Typical Shenanigans and Chicanery, Gotta Love A Man In Uniform, Hidden Makeout Sessions, How An Entire Life Can Change In The Span Of Five Seconds, If Not Pie Then What?, Late Night Movie Dates, M/M, Meatloaf Mouth, Mixtape, Psych - Freeform, Season 3, Shassie, Some Good Old-Fashioned Detective Work, That Time Carlton Almost Punched His Partner In The Face, The Horrifying Ordeal of Wanting More, This Is The Beginning Of The Rest Of Your Life, Tongue-tied, You Can Bet On It, bad puns galore, so very tired, sweet dreams are made of this
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-21
Updated: 2020-07-21
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25429102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabthefish/pseuds/grabthefish
Summary: S3MXT: Season 3 Mixtape - set to an 80's soundtrack; the story behind the story, all while keeping as canonical as possible.Carlton nearly goes crazy waiting for a case and then goes a little crazier once they get one. Somebody wins the bet and a date is had, sooner rather than later. People do things they never thought they'd do before, and no, I do not mean sex. But also, yes, I absolutely do mean sex.Track List:21. Head Over Heels/Everybody Wants to Rule the World - 3.13 Any Given Friday Night At 10pm/9pm Central22.23.24.25.*Must be read after S3MXT Vol. 2 (Side B) for continuity's sake
Relationships: Carlton Lassiter/Shawn Spencer
Series: S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1040091
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	S3MXT: A Shassie Love Story (Vol. 3) - Side A

**Author's Note:**

> For Mixtape's playlist, go [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0sVBPcpFqvIEbG4qlrxVZr); listen before, after, or during - the choice is yours, as long as you enjoy. New songs will be posted with the chapter they are attached to.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> *This chapter takes place during season 3 episode 13: Any Given Friday Night At 10pm/9pm Central  
> ** The accompanying songs are Head Over Heels & Everybody Wants To Rule The World by Tears For Fears

* * *

Everything was _not_ fine.

Carlton had finally caught a case and a weird one at that. Weird cases, of course, meant calling in Spencer. And in this case, also meant that they could finally determine the outcome of their bet. Which was good. Because Carlton had been on pins and needles, knowing the inevitable was on its way and anxious for an opportunity to get the whole deal over and done with.

As to the subject of the investigation, he barely even cared.

Football. Soccer. Lacrosse.

None of it mattered to him, so it might as well have all been the same.

The detective’s nerves were shot. His nerves were shot, he was jumpy, and far too often, he found himself wandering around in a state of self-induced exhaustion, sleep deprived for far too many nights in a row. Even worse, he found that he missed the bastard he was so used to wanting to throttle, having gone from despising his presence to desiring it in just a few short months - the only time they'd been able to find for each other having been spent watching the late-late movie over the phone, Shawn's fondness for talking through film being put to good use.

Though he wouldn't trade it for anything, it left Carlton feeling drained.

He’d come to find the time he spent with Shawn elated him in ways he didn't expect and couldn’t understand, and though he never would have guessed it to happen, they seemed to be settling into a weird kind of domesticity, able to slide in and out of each other’s lives with ease. The problem was, however, that up until that point and due to what he told himself was nothing but circumstance, their relationship was simply a growing collection of occurrences happening between them.

It wasn't anything _real_.

Equally unexpected, Carlton found himself wanting to spend actual time with the man he kept fondling in dark hallways - and janitor’s closets. And empty offices. And unused underground parking lots - dying for an opportunity to find out if whatever they were could become anything more than what it was.

To find out if that was what he really wanted. He’d never asked himself that before.

And to find out, he needed more than stolen moments.

Needed to move past the careless whispers of skin on skin in inappropriate places.

Needed to let go.

More importantly, he needed it _now_ , dammit.

So. Having a case was good.

Having a case meant progression. Meant moving forward.

There _was_ a small hitch, however.

Psych having not been hired in a while meant that Carlton hadn't much opportunity to interact with his new... whatever Shawn was in a professional setting. And now that he had the chance, he had no idea how he was supposed to handle it. Worse, he'd completely forgotten that 'as per usual' meant having to watch Shawn flirt with everything that moved, predominately the people he pestered most: Carlton’s very pretty partner and of course, Carlton, himself.

The cop had prepared himself to fend off any advance that came his way - something he’d had years of practice at, thanks to Shawn's antics - but had completely forgotten that Spencer was more likely to make a pass at O'Hara than he was with a football. Their not-quite courtship not about to change that, it very vaguely made him want to punch someone in the face, his issues with jealousy sadly no longer a thing of the past.

The green-eyed monster had been one of his many problems with Victoria – not the main reason she’d left him, but at least a little to blame - and after some deep post break-up court-mandated soul-searching, he'd realized his issues had been a reflection of his own insecurities, having little to nothing to do with her. It had been years since he'd had a reason to be jealous, and he’d thought he was well over it. It didn't take long to learn otherwise, however, when he found himself struggling not to wipe the look of lust off his partner's face, both cops staring wide-eyed and slack-jawed at the psychic as he ran onto the field wearing white football pants.

Tight white football pants.

 _Extremely_ tight white football pants.

 _Solving this case with speed is of the utmost necessity,_ Carlton thought, knowing his jealousy was unwarranted and yet unable to stop himself. He felt his blood boil as it surged to his groin, the combination of desire and frustration driving him mad.

_O'Hara's life might depend on it._

* * *

Shawn walked in on Resourceful Gus [patent pending] making one of his rare appearances.

Though he thought the man’s aversion to touching other men and the lengths to which he would go to avoid it was weird, Shawn had to give Gus credit where credit was due - his friend could get mightily creative if it meant getting out of any unwanted touchy-feely, thus proving his genius wasn’t restricted to scholastic endeavours.

Ever since hitting puberty, Gus had tried to abstain from coming in contact with bro-skin, outside of things like fist bumps and family hugs, of course. He wasn't homophobic, he had explained to a sixteen-year-old Shawn; it was just that the thought of having to be up close and personal with that much man-flesh gave him the heebie-jeebies. He knew how gross Shawn was (manicures and spa days aside), so who was Gus to assume that other dudes were any better?

Shawn glared at Gus as he ‘massaged’ his football player, hoping his impatient face would hurry his partner along. His buddy long since immune to the majority of his methods, Shawn doubted it would work, but it wouldn't stop him from trying - basking in the exasperation of others the thing that kept him young and beautiful, like a less macabre Elizabeth Báthory.

With no reason to retain any such knowledge of poison oak himself, he needed to access his better half's brain-box and preferred to do so as quickly as possible. Time wasn’t exactly of the essence, per se; Shawn was just tired and horny and lonely, and the sooner they finished the damn case, the sooner he could solve all three of those problems with just one blow.

Well, it didn’t _have_ to be a blow. He was sure that Lassisaurus Sex could get creative, already thinking of the delightful things the Head Detective could do with his hands. _Had_ done with his hands, those long, slender fingers of his having wrapped around Shawn’s heart and balls in a way that made him want Lassie to hold on to them forever.

Hard as ~~he~~ it was, Shawn shook himself free from the distracting thoughts, questioning what he _did_ remember of poison oak and turning his mind to case-related rumination instead. What he did remember turned out to be nothing more than ‘ _don’t touch_ ’, though he did suspect the leafy green was responsible for the rash that Vince and Vlad had in common. So, if Gus knew where they could find some? Well, they might just be able to beat Lassie to the body and bring Shawn one step closer to the win he craved more than tacos.

And there was almost nothing Shawn craved more than tacos.

* * *

Gus got off the phone bearing good news.

Not that severed feet were ever _good_ , but this one proved Shawn right; the pink flakes under Vlad's toenails were, in fact, dried calamine lotion.

Shawn glanced over at the passel of policemen gathered by the water and, noting Lassiter was amongst the crowd, smirked at the sight. Warrior-paint and sneer set strong on his face, he strutted towards them with a purpose, both ready and excited to blow their mind-holes with his amazing knowledge.

There was just no way he was going down on this one. There was just too much at stake.

He'd seen how anxious Lassie had been when he'd insisted he be the one to plan their night out on the town – _maybe towns; we'll see what Troy is up to_ – and he knew that his lover had serious control issues. Kinda sexy, kinda nerdy, serious stress-induced control issues. And while Shawn had been hoping he’d get to play with the more entertaining ones sometime down the road, as of now he just wanted to force Lassiter to let go and show the man the time of his life. Regardless of whether it was _with_ Lassie or at his expense, he always had fun with the Irish Catholic cop… but if Santa Barbara's Head Detective got to pick what they did on date night, they'd wind up doing something generic like Red Robin and a movie.

Not that there was anything wrong with Red Robin. It was where Shawn had decided to seriously get serious about his pursuit of the skinny civil servant, after all. But he also knew he could do better than that; by the end of their evening, he wanted Lassie to feel like he was the only girl in the world.

(Besides, if he wasn't able get the detective's heart pounding, it would mean something had gone seriously wrong with Shawn's magic first-date powers. Which was absolutely, one hundred percent _not_ something he was willing to entertain.)

So, he needed to win. He just had to.

Shawn noticed Lassie looking at him and wondered what the detective was thinking, making a mental note to ask him about it later should they have the chance to talk. It had been a while since they’d really conversed; one or the other of them usually finding much better things to do with their tongues than _talk_ whenever the opportunity arose. But that look was a ‘special Lassie’ look and Shawn was glad he wasn’t a cat because his curiosity was killing him.

He needed a distraction and turned towards Juliet, grinning as she rolled her eyes at his adolescent line, reminding him that he needed to ask Gus about how that fan club page was coming because a newsletter really should be a part of it. And a fathead, if possible. He had to give all six of his fans s _omething_ after all.

Dropping the thought, Shawn continued, finding himself startled and forced to bluster through when his dearest detective took the word ‘lake’ right out of his mouth. It was tempting _,_ _so_ tempting, to respond with a reference to a Meatloaf song – _you took the words right outta my mouth, oh it must have been while you were kissing me -_ but for once, Shawn uncharacteristically chose to keep it to himself, aware the best way to avoid suspicion was to act the same as they had been before. He had never shied away from lecherous comments in the past, of course, but he wasn't quite sure how Lassie would react to an allusion of their make-out sessions and didn’t want to take the risk, having promised to keep things on the DL.

No matter how much Shawn might claim otherwise, he wasn’t psychic. But he _did_ have a sneaking suspicion that accidentally outing them might result in fewer blowjobs than he was prepared to exist without. Lassiter’s tongue rivalled his intellect, which said _loads_ ; the cranky cop one of the smartest men Shawn had ever met. And because he would almost rather lose a toe than the feeling of the man’s mouth against his skin, Shawn chose to keep his shut.

Floored the cops had beaten him to Vlad's waterlogged corpse, he still had to admit that Lassie's self-righteous smirk was starting to turn him on. Not that it took much from the man to turn him on these days… but that smirk was something else. Flabbergasted, Shawn sputtered silently, indignance slowly enveloping him as his lover took full advantage of the uncommon occurrence that was the psychic’s speechlessness.

 _Cavernous pie-hole..._ he thought, ears turning red as, after nearly three full years of trying, the seasoned cop finally got the best of him. _Goddammit!_

Shawn shook his head, the movement slight as he mumbled and tried to control himself.

They both knew what he was thinking; there was no way Lassiter wasn't thinking it, too.

Hell, Gus was probably even thinking it, despite his obvious desire not to.

Other than pie, there was exactly **_one_** way to shut Shawn's pie-hole. And Lassie was _intimately_ familiar with the procedure.

 _I can’t believe Lassie just said that!_ Shawn thought, vowing to never censor himself for lust again. _That's it._ _All bets are off!_

He glanced up at the detective grinning at him, the twinkle in his eye stopping him dead in his tracks. Instantly, Shawn's ire dissipated as he remembered what was on the line.

_...well, maybe not all of them. I'm still gonna win this thing and give Lassie the night of his life whether he likes it or not. And I’m gonna make **sure** he likes it. This is now officially a spite-date. It’ll be a night he never forgets!_

Lassiter stared at him, and he knew he had to come up with a comment quick.

“Something about Night of the Comet,” Shawn muttered, struggling for a coherent comeback and beginning to plot, devious thoughts twisting in his mind. “Just forget it.”

 _He`ll never know what hit him._

* * *

They didn't know what hit them.

One minute, Shawn and Gus were in their room, the next they’d been abducted and were being dangled off the edge of a building.

“You guys know why you're here,” a low voice said from behind, scaring the bejesus out of them. Not that there was much bejesus in them to begin with, but _still_. It was spooky, and startling, and completely uncalled for. “You have two choices.”

The psychic saw his life flash before his eyes. But, like the contrarian he was, instead of witnessing his past, Shawn pictured the potential his future could hold.

Much as he might joke about it, he and Lassie would never skip around holding hands or frolic through the daisies. But the last few weeks they’d had together – even taking their limited interactions into account – had contained some of the best moments of Shawn’s life. Happier than he’d been in god knows how long, he wasn’t even _remotely_ ready for it to be over and refused to go out before he had the chance to show the detective exactly how fond of him he had become.

Which was far _far_ fonder than he had ever expected to be.

Shawn wasn’t done yet, not when they had only just begun.

“Dude, I think we're on top of the stadium,” he muttered to Gus, wracking his brain for a way to break free and coming up empty. Too high up and surrounded by thugs, he had no clue how they were to make their great escape and it pained him to realize they may be fucked in a less than pleasant way. “Do _not_ step forward.”

The voice continued, its orders steady.

“You can either jump or get pushed off. You have five seconds to decide.”

Shawn wasn’t ready.

He needed more than five seconds.

He needed more than five _years._

He needed a lifetime.

Possibility flashed against the back of his closed lids and he pictured Lassie`s smile in the hazy glow of early morning light, the man’s beautiful blue eyes blinking back cloudy vestiges of sleep. Shawn had hoped he would someday soon get to see it for himself - that he wouldn't have to suffer the alternative of his innards splattering the concrete below like a Jackson Pollock painting, the thought of the latter making him want to cry.

“5...”

_Lassie will never be won over by the game if I bit the big one in a football stadium..._

“4...”

It dawned on Shawn in that moment that he would do almost anything to stay alive. Not even for himself, but because he couldn’t bear the thought of giving Lassie much deserved affection and then snatching it away so cruelly. He’d seen a weight lifted from the man in the past few weeks and hadn’t realized until then how much it affected him as well. How badly he wanted to share such an important piece of himself with the detective.

Somehow, despite the odds, he still needed to find a way to make that happen.

“3...”

He'd never wanted to give of himself so freely before – Shawn was a notorious taker, after all – and the fact that Carlton made him want to frightened him almost as much as the looming likelihood of his imminent demise. Shawn had _never_ been a relationship kinda guy, the idea of spending more than one night (or maybe three, if they were especially talented) with someone sending a bone-chilling kind of terror through him. Or at least it had, prior to Lassie.

Commitment. Relationship. Togetherness.

All words that used to sound dirty to Shawn.

But the SPBD’s Head Detective, in all his surly glory, had changed that, somehow making him want more.

Somehow making Shawn crave longer.

Maybe even forever.

 _Oh, god_ , he thought, a fresh wave of nausea rolling through him, the combination of vertigo and his heartfelt epiphany making him feel ill.

_Forever? Where the hell did that come from?_

But as much as he questioned it, he also couldn’t deny it.

If he was being honest, this wasn’t even the first time he’d thought it.

The possibility, should Shawn survive the evening, was there.

And it was far less scary than he expected it would be.

“2...”

His thoughts drifted to his best bud.

Shawn knew he should be more worried for Gus, but he couldn’t be, his thoughts trapped with Lassiter. He _was_ impressed that his friend hadn't yet blacked out from the stress of being kidnapped and hooded by a bunch of big white dudes, though, the return of _Fearless Guster_ taking him by surprise. In fact, Shawn applauded that on a scale from one to freaking the fuck out, all things considered, his bestie was really only rocking a seven.

_Who knew that deep inside the softy that is Burton Guster lay a core of steel, however thin the thread may be?_

“1!”

Gus wailed.

_Or not._

* * *

Carlton awoke in a cold sweat; certain he was going to lose the bet.

He'd been dreaming of chasing Russians through alleys, across footballs fields, and into stadium stands when he had suddenly come across Spencer sitting on the bleachers alone, donning full football regalia, his hand to head with eyes closed and a finger on the tip of his nose.

Carlton’s dream-self had stopped and stared.

“What are you doing, Spencer?” he'd asked, bewildered.

“Divining,” the psychic replied easily, his eyes still closed.

“But why is your finger on your nose?” the detective inquired, curious, but also not really sure he wanted to know.

“Because I'm too lazy to bend over.”

Dream-Lassie sputtered.

“What? That makes absolutely no sense at all. What are you on abou-”

“Nose rhymes with toes,” Shawn interrupted matter-of-factly, as if the statement clarified everything. Which, of course, it didn’t.

Carlton shook his head in frustration.

When he stopped, his head still, he’d noticed they had switched positions; Shawn now standing in front of him wearing a wily grin and dressed in his usual plaid/denim combo, Carlton sitting in the stands where Spencer had just been. The shoulder-pads and cleats were nowhere to be found, and Carlton started to suspect he was dreaming, the fact that he’d noticed Guster atop the goalposts in the distance strengthening that assumption. (The fastidious pharma-rep had his nose in a book that was not only written in Cyrillic but was both upside-down and backwards. He was also dressed as the leader of a marching band - feather plume in cap and all. There was _no way_ Carlton wasn’t dreaming.)

“Lassie! Bubby! Baby!” Shawn exclaimed, as if things hadn't just completely changed. “It's been _ages,_ darling! Where have you been? Why have I not seen you?” he asked, tugging the detective to his feet.

Carlton's dream version of the psychic leaned forward and air-kissed him twice, pulling the cop close for a face to face hug, their cheeks smooshing together like two really smooshy things.

“Lassie. Lover. Darling,” the psychic continued, drawling, his fingers sprawled across the side of Carlton’s face. “You have perfect timing!”

Carlton pried Shawn away and slid sideways a step, trying to put a little distance in between himself and the absurdity he was witnessing. But, trapped between the boy and the bleachers, he found himself unable to do so.

“Get off me, Spencer. And what the hell are you talking about?”

“I wrote a song for you,” Shawn said, vibrating with excitement. “And just as I finish, here you are to give it to; it's superfluous!”

Carlton knew Spencer meant serendipitous, but his dream-self refused to take the bait. His dream-self was a very smart man - sometimes smarter than his awake-self - and because he was unwilling to play Spencer's reindeer games, was starting to hope he’d wake up soon.

He'd really rather not have to hear the damn song, which he was certain was about to be forced onto him.

God only knew what was going to come out of the man’s mouth next.

“I don't want your song, Spencer,” he had replied, still trying to shift around the psychic to no avail. “I have a murderer to catch, so get out of my way.”

“I know – that's what my song is about!” Shawn exclaimed, bouncing on his toes and pushing against Carlton's chest with two fingers. Carlton’s knees hit the steel bleachers behind him and feeling uncharacteristically vulnerable, he fell onto his ass. Fortunately, the seat was there to catch him.

“Perfect!” Spencer continued. A shit-eating grin on his face, he straddled the detective, Carlton’s hands flying to Shawn’s waist without his realizing it. “Now… you're probably familiar with the tune but stop me if you've heard the lyrics before.”

Carlton closed his eyes, wishing he could will himself awake.

The interaction was hell for multiple reasons, but the worst part was that by acknowledging his dream state, Carlton also had to acknowledge that he couldn’t even control Spencer in his own imagination - the thought that Shawn ran roughshod and rampant over his life both conscious and subconsciously frustrating him to no end.

He tried to wish harder.

It didn’t help.

Voice breathy, Shawn began to sing, the shoulders of his shirt sliding sensually down his arms while his hips swayed. Lips plump, his eyelashes fluttered coquettishly, the man mimicking Marilyn Monroe singing an Eartha Kitt song.

“Lassie, baby...” he began, gyrating slowly, shimmying with his shirt as if it were a feather boa. “Hurry to your conclusions, boy. Oh joy...”

Carlton sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose as Shawn continued. He didn't need to be looking at the psychic to know what was happening and couldn’t believe that Shawn had the unyielding capacity to simultaneously embarrass and make him achingly aroused even in his dreams.

Who knew what the brat would do if he won their bet?

“It's not the Russians, good sir!” Shawn sang, dipping and grinding. “Lassie, baby...”

Dream-Lassie groaned, his body tight and taught as it responded to Spencer's taunting.

“You're gonna lose our big bet toniiiiight!”

Carlton snapped awake with a start.

A sheen of cold sweat coated his body and he bolted upright in bed. Breath heavy, he threw the blanket off and reached for the glass of water on his nightstand, erection raging as he swung his legs over the side of his bed. After a moment of trying and failing to calm himself, he blearily noticed the light on his Blackberry blink and grabbed it to find a message awaiting him. 

It was from Shawn - a picture of the psychic's posterior clad in those sinfully tight football pants, below it the caption:

**_cant touch this! <3_ **

**_still not teh russians!!!_ **

**_h & k's!!_ **

_Goddamn it!_ Carlton thought.

He tossed his phone to the side, running a hand over his face and groaning as he fell back on his mattress.

This case just couldn't be solved fast enough.

He didn't even care who won anymore.

* * *

Taunting her with a sexiness she easily rebuffed, Shawn sat beside Juliet at a table full of evidence, both doing their best to crack the case. Happy with what he’d begun to build with Lassie, it wasn’t that he was trying to start something with Jules – it was just that after so long working together, getting her to admit that he was super-crazy-amazing-football-player-sexy was practically a point of pride with him.

Her snubbing him never hurt much either, the detective’s sharp tongue one of his favorite things about her.

Sometimes, though - when she was being snappy and sexy and smart - Shawn was able to picture an alternate universe where _they_ had ended up together instead of he and Lassie. But just because they hadn't in no way meant he was gonna give up trying to make her admit she thought he was attractive, though.

Being in a relationship of some kind didn't mean he should give up on his goals, after all.

Besides, he was sexy as hell, and he knew it killed her not to acknowledge the fact just as much as it bruised his ego when she didn’t.

Gus didn’t know that, though, and he shot them a questioning glance before calling their attention back to the case.

“Hey! Dead Russian guy? Possible homicidal football players?”

Shawn surveyed the evidence, a little chagrined, and quickly noted keys on a chain that matched the one he had seen Matt with. He began piecing things together:

_ORW._

ORW had to stand for Off Road Warriors.

Off Road, like ATV.

ATV, with no windshield, meaning it could be responsible for Vlad's untimely demise.

Shawn looked down at the paperwork in front of him. Noting the time of the man's expiration, he realized it was hours prior to the threatening text message sent by 'the Russians'.

Everything clicked.

He dropped the keys.

He had it.

He'd known it wasn't the Russians from the beginning.

Now he had proof, and there was nothing Lassie could do about it.

Shawn was so excited he barely remembered to breathe.

“We have to go.”

* * *

Carlton stood off to the side of the tunnel, bathed in shadow. His jacket folded over his arm, he watched Shawn lead the Firebirds down the hall past both of their partners and onto the field to the delight of the roaring crowd. Only those few loiterers in the back knew who he was, but the elation was evident on Spencer's face nonetheless, the man beaming as he ran past his friends.

The sight made Carlton’s heart stutter.

A happy Spencer meant a happy Carlton and he didn’t even want to try to figure out when that had happened. He just enjoyed that it had and wished he could be the one to put that look on the man’s face all the time.

He hadn’t liked the flirtatiousness Shawn had displayed towards O’Hara when he’d stopped to speak with her, but that was nothing new. It also wasn't going to be the thing that stopped the psychic from doing whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted to do it. But to be honest, Carlton wouldn’t have it any other way, glad their relationship wasn’t changing who they were. He knew getting into this that Spencer was likely to press most of his buttons – hell, he was probably going to find new buttons simply _to_ press – and had finally accepted it as a necessary evil. The exuberant consultant keeping him on his toes was good for his health, even if it was bad for the color of his hair.

As Spencer plowed through the wall of smoke, the detective turned on his heel and walked back to the locker room, not feeling the need to witness any more of the exhibition than he already had. More importantly, he wanted to lessen the chance of O’Hara catching him there, having no suitable explanation to give as to why he was.

Guster had been instructed by both Shawn and himself to avoid bringing her anywhere near the locker room where Carlton was to await Shawn's return.

It wasn’t that either was ashamed of the other, but the stress of having to out themselves at this state was just too much to deal with and neither wanted to do it yet, the allure of basking in their simple togetherness too strong. Having to tell Juliet - on purpose or by accident - made it a different kind of real than they were ready for, and while Carlton was fairly certain real was what they were working towards, they both wanted to enjoy living in their bubble a little longer if they could. And it was likely, if Guster was listening to anyone, that Carlton's threat of incapacitation would do better to hold him to his word than Shawn's wheedling would.

Carlton didn’t really care either way, though. As long as he didn't have an awkward interpersonal issue to deal with, it wasn’t important to the cop which technique won out.

He'd just be happy he didn't have to shoot his beau’s best friend.

The two of them were already on shaky grounds, Guster only going along with the plan begrudgingly, still furious with Lassiter for the altercation that had occurred the prior September. While Shawn may have gotten over it, his partner had remained wary of the detective, and Carlton suspected it was why the pharma-rep had not only been reticent to help clear his name during the Drimmer debacle, but still proclaimed doubt regarding his innocence in the matter ever since.

Carlton just hoped he'd get over it soon; he and Shawn already had enough working against them without having to worry about the psychic's best friend potentially tearing their relationship apart.

Relationship.

 _Wow_.

He was at the start of a relationship with Shawn Spencer.

The mind boggled.

He'd promised to wait for Shawn, the psychic insisting he had big news to share. Which of course piqued Carlton’s curiosity, giving him an inkling that it had something to do with their forthcoming date. Shawn had won the damn bet like he’d said he was going to and Carlton expected he would never hear the end of Spencer's crowing, doubly glad he’d secured the man's promise that their private lives wouldn’t go public – if only because it meant he’d be tortured with the knowledge only half as often as was actually possible.

Looking around the room, Carlton was curious as to which locker Spencer had claimed, wondering not only how the I.D. O'Hara had given him resulted in his being caught but how it was the only piece of identification the man possessed. The last time he had checked, Spencer owned a motorcycle (which he knew well, having bought the bike back for him once upon a time – the first in a long line of caring and uncharacteristic actions towards the psychic. Jesus, how had his affection for the man taken him so long to figure out? He was pretty fucking dumb for a Head Detective, he was starting to realize) and would thereby need to have a licence to drive it, although it seemed he never did.

And yet…

 _That little shit better not be driving illegally,_ Carlton thought as he waited patiently. _I can't be a part of any of that kind of crap. Illegal is illegal, regardless of how nice his ass is._

Lost in thought, he spotted the green jacket Shawn had lifted from Guster and snapped back to reality, realizing he’d just answered his own inquiry. Not the one that mattered, of course - he was learning that the things about Shawn that _mattered_ were never going to be found out with simple questions. Maybe a tied-down tickle-induced interrogation would work, but there was no time for that now.

Not here, anyhow.

Glad he only needed a cursory glance around the room, he shoved the thought of Spencer tied to his bed aside and stood, making his way to the garish garment. His back toward the door, he reached to grab it, unaware of Shawn behind him re-entering the room.

“Lassiekins!” the psychic exclaimed, walking towards him with an ear-to-ear grin. “You made it!”

Startled, Carlton turned as the man spoke what barely passed for a sentimental moniker, his heart warming as he laughed to himself; Spencer’s tone sounding like he was surprised he had shown up as planned.

Like Spencer wasn’t the one with the propensity to run.

Like Carlton hadn’t been counting the moments until he got to see him again.

Silly Shawn.

Of course, Carlton had made it. He was always going to shown up.

There wasn't anywhere in the world he would rather be.

**Author's Note:**

> *waves* Hi! Happy surprise chapter! Don't get super excited; this does not mean another one is getting posted any time soon. Really, if I didn't want to commemorate the birth of one of the most fabulous humans I know and didn't have this one sitting around practically ready for a while now, this wouldn't even be getting posted. Life is hard, but not as hard as writing on a laptop with fucky keys. *sigh* Anyhow, I digress. Happy Birthday, Glitter! I love your face off and hope you love this chapter at least half as much. It's one of my personal favorites, and so, I dedicate it to you. <3
> 
> (The next chapter is still... in progress. I have been working on it for over two years, so like... cross your fingers and wish me luck, y'all?)


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